Dove
by La-Matrona
Summary: "It started with a cup of coffee. In retrospect, it would have been far more prudent of her to use a warming charm on the tepid swill, but she was impatient, and warming charms worked less effectively than what she had in mind." Written for the Wordsmiths and Betas marriage law one-shot competition. Winner in four categories, runner up in one.


**A/N:** This one-shot won Fan-Favorite, Best Plot, Best Drama, Most Unique Marriage Law, and Runner Up Best Angst in the last Wordsmiths and Betas one-shot competition, and I am immensely grateful to everyone who voted for it. The story is complete as it stands and will not be expanded, though I appreciate your enthusiasm for the world I created in it. A thousand thanks, once again, to oblivion . baby, the dearest beta in the land.

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 **May 2**

 **The Leaky Cauldron**

It started with a cup of coffee. In retrospect, it would have been far more prudent of her to use a warming charm on the tepid swill, but she was impatient, and warming charms worked less effectively than what she had in mind.

" _Ulcus_ ," she whispered, touching the tip of her wand to the mug. The black liquid inside reacted immediately, beginning to steam and then to bubble as she lowered her wand.

"You know, I'm not sure I've ever seen that spell used to heat coffee before. I'll have to give it a go next time."

Hermione looked up at the sound of a male voice, startled to have been observed. The man who had spoken sat at the table beside hers, and, as far as she could tell, was one of the only other patrons in the Leaky Cauldron so early on a Saturday. He was watching her almost speculatively, a teasing glint in his eye, his dark hair perfectly groomed and his robes pressed over the clean linen shirt and braces he wore. Hermione fidgeted in her seat, unused to drawing attention.

"It's a bit complicated," she said. "Takes a bit of control to keep it isolated to the mug."

The man smirked openly, sipping his own coffee before speaking. "I think I'll be able to manage."

Hermione's eyes widened as she rushed to assure the man that she had meant no offense, but he merely raised a hand and gave her a charming, easy smile. "It's quite alright," he told her. "I know the _Ulcus_ spell can be tricky to manage, but as it happens, I have some experience with it."

Hermione raised a brow, but did not comment on the man's confession. In her experience, those who were familiar with that particular boiling hex were rarely able to discuss where they had learned it. Of course, she was no exception to the rule, especially here and now.

"Are you new to London?" She looked up as the man continued to address her, nodding in reply.

"Yes," she said, clearing her throat and avoiding the man's gaze before elaborating. "I'm from France, actually."

He raised a dark, regally shaped brow. "Your accent is very good for a french-woman," he commented dryly.

"My parents are English," Hermione shrugged. "We didn't go out much."

The man laughed and then took another sip of his coffee. "Fine, keep your secrets," he said, and then dabbed his lips with the corner of the cloth napkin he had apparently laid over his lap.

Hermione didn't answer, only hid her own smile behind her hand for a moment and then blew on her drink.

"Tell me, are you familiar with _Tergora Deripiunt_?" His tone was curious and careful, and Hermione stiffened as his words registered.

"What?" She asked, her tone surprisingly even after the mention of such a dark spell.

"Apples."

"Excuse me?" Her voice was incredulous now and a touch confused.

"It's good for peeling apples," he said as he continued to watch her.

"Apples," Hermione echoed.

"Or bananas. Really anything with a thick skin you'd rather not remove by hand." He was teasing her, the cad. Hermione's brow furrowed, and she set down her mug on the table.

"Hmm. Well, thanks for the tip. I really ought to go now though, or I'll be late to work," she said, dropping several sickles on the table and smoothing her skirt as she stood. The handsome man watched her rise, not moving to stand as so many of his contemporaries did.

"You work in Diagon Alley?" He asked.

"Yes," Hermione answered, pulling a set of worn blue robes out of her magically enlarged purse and slipping them on over her arms.

"Eyelop's Owl Emporium," the man observed, apparently recognizing the uniform. "You didn't strike me as a shop girl."

Hermione's spine stiffened at his words, and her expression turned to stone. "Perhaps you're not quite as discerning as you think you are," she said, and then swept out of the pub practically seething. The nerve of the man; of all men really. She wasn't sure she'd met a single one who wasn't a patronizing ass since that wretched time turner had landed her in 1949.

0-0-0-0-0-0

 **July 31, 1949**

 **The Leaky Cauldron**

It was the worst day yet. She had been in 1949 for nearly four months, but until now, she had not seriously considered the possibility that her sojourn there might be anything other than temporary. Yes, she'd managed to find a job to support herself while she researched the broken Time-Turner she wore round her neck, but she had not expected her employment there to last more than a month or so, just until she was able to repair the device and return home. But she had not been able to fix the Time-Turner, and with each passing day, she lost hope she ever would. The Sands of Time, which had been encased in the instrument, had been lost when the glass shattered as she'd arrived, and without them the necklace itself was useless, just a strange pendant she wore and frequently fiddled with.

If only getting help from the ministry were an option! But Hermione knew that such an attempt would prove fruitless; dangerous, even. The first Time-Turner would not be invented for decades, and without more proof than some broken, unfamiliar instrument, the Ministry-which was still paranoid over the specter of Gellert Grindelwald- might suspect her of more nefarious intentions than returning to the future.

Hermione sighed and drained the tumbler of brandy on the bar top in front of her. _Happy Birthday, Harry_ , she thought as the dark liquid burned her throat and tears threatened to burn in her eyes. She was missing it, missing the life she was supposed to be living. Missing her career at the Ministry as an Unspeakable, missing her best friend's birthday, and with it, the wedding he had planned to his Hogwarts sweetheart. Would they have postponed it, because she was missing, or would they have gone ahead with the small ceremony, needing the joy it would bring?

"Shop girl." A self-assured voice cut through her self pity like a knife, and Hermione glanced up to see a familiar looking man in black robes, his dark hair combed neatly to the side and an amused expression on his handsome lips.

"You," Hermione said in surprise, knitting her brows together as she placed the man as the same person who had noticed her misuse of the blood boiling hex months before. "Apples."

He laughed, a charming sound that seemed to warm her and set her at ease. "Yes. Glad to know I made an impression. Can I buy you another?" He motioned to her empty glass, and Hermione arched a brow. "Or not. You're not married are you?"

Hermione scoffed. "No. Thank Merlin. I've managed to escape that noose thus far." Perhaps in a different time marriage might have been something she would consider- to the right man- but in mid-century London, all of the 'right men' were five decades away. Her work in the Department of Mysteries had kept her largely isolated, but that had not prevented her from meeting two or three of Harry's auror friends. She'd been set to go on a date with one of them before she had disappeared.

"Not open to the institution?" He seemed curious now, and the curiosity seemed to light his face like a flame.

"Not here."

"Ah, are French men much more desirable then?" He was teasing her, and to her surprise, Hermione found she enjoyed the exchange.

"Well, they certainly have a few extremely enticing qualities. Their dexterity, for instance."

It was the man's turn to raise a brow now, and he did so quite elegantly. "And dexterity is a trait you value?"

"It's something all women value," she answered, smirking. She looked back down at her drink, remembering as she did so that it was empty, and _why_ it was empty. Making a snap decision in the time it took her to touch the glass, she glanced up at the man at her side, giving him a half hearted smile. "Didn't you say something about drinks?"

He watched her for several heartbeats before answering, as if he were considering his options and weighing them all against one another before finally speaking. "I believe I did."

0-0-0-0-0-0

His mouth was hot against hers as they crashed into the upstairs room. It had not taken long for Hermione to go from drinking with him at the bar to following him to the third floor of the Leaky Cauldron, where rooms were apparently let by the hour. She knew she should be more cautious, that what she was doing now was likely a mistake of epic proportions, but somehow, she could not bring herself to protest. Besides, she had been cautious for far too long, and where had it landed her? Certainly not with a promotion, or a steady boyfriend to share her nights with. No, all she'd gotten was a one way ticket to the past and a boring, useless job cleaning owl shit out of cages.

She deserved this. The heat and the spark, the firmness of his hands on her upper arms as he drew her into the room and shut the door firmly behind them, locking it with the practiced wave of a hand.

"Show off," Hermione teased as they broke apart at last, and she collapsed against the bed which dominated the room.

"What, that?" he asked, motioning at the bolted door lock before scoffing. "Wandless magic is hardly difficult for a skilled wizard."

Hermione raised a brow at his arrogance before glancing pointedly at the drapes beside the solitary window in the room. The two heavy panels of fabric sprang into action at once, sliding shut on the metal curtain rods in no time at all. When she looked back at him, still standing by the door, his eyes were glittering.

"Now who's showing off?" he asked, voice low and husky as he stepped closer to her, a feral, predatory look in his dark eyes. The expression both terrified and titillated her, and Hermione found her breath hitching as he advanced. "Tell me, where did a shop girl like you learn such advanced skills? Been taking lessons from the owls?"

He was almost upon her now, his long fingered hands loosening the tie around his neck before shrugging out of his robes completely, leaving him standing in front of her in trousers, a crisp white Oxford, and braces. "Beauxbatons," Hermione breathed, remembering to lie as she took in his lithe form greedily.

"Must we persist with that charade?" the man laughed, bending down now and forcing her to lean back on her elbows as his arms framed her. "You may keep your secrets for now, but you mustn't lie to me, my dove."

"I'm not your dove," Hermione breathed as he began to settle against her, his chest pressing into her blouse as her shoulder blades came to rest on the bed's surface.

"But you'd like to be," he whispered, and then took her mouth with his in a kiss that seared and enflamed her. As his lips dominated hers, his hands caressed the length of her, sweeping from her cheek, down to her breast, and then further down to her hip, where his fingers dug into her skirt and tender flesh.

Hermione whimpered, "Yes," and he loosened his grip, biting her lip as he pulled away, and then moved his fingers to the top button of her blouse, which he began to undo with practiced skill as he showered the tender flesh of her neck with open mouthed kisses.

"What's your name, dove?" his voice was deep and controlled in her ear, and she sighed in response.

"Hermione."

"Hermione." He echoed her slowly, as if he were contemplating the name. "Hermione, I'd like you to spread your legs for me. A bit more. Good." Her blouse now completely undone, Hermione felt him trace his fingers from her stocking clad knee, up over her thigh, and to the damp heat between them.

"Merlin, you're soaked," he said, his tone at once pleased and mocking. Hermione whimpered and bit her lip, her pride at war with the delicious feeling he was stoking within her.

"Please, just-"

"Oh, I like that word on your lips," he interrupted. " _Evanesco_." Her stockings and panties disappeared at his command, leaving her completely bare to him. Immediately, his fingers sank into the slick wetness coating her, his thumb finding the sensitized nub at the top of her slit. Her back arched in response, and she tried to find purchase with her arms, wrapping them around his neck and sinking her nails into his linen covered shoulders.

" _Voluptatem_." The spell was like a jolt of electricity, moving from his thumb to her clit and causing an instant reaction. She came without effort, or warning, screaming as the sensation took over, and her eyes closed tightly against the pleasurable onslaught. By the time her cries had faded to a whimper and she could see through bleary eyes, the man had unzipped his trousers, letting them fall open to reveal his hardened cock, dripping with arousal.

"What the bloody fuck was that?" Hermione whispered hoarsely, still panting as he brought his hand, still coated with her arousal, up to her lace covered breast. He pulled the cup of her brassiere down and then began to stroke her hard, pebbled nipples with his thumb, leaving a glistening streak of her own moisture before leaning down to lap it up with his tongue.

"Have I found a spell you're not familiar with?" he said against her breast, before looking up at her with dark eyes, his pupils wide with lust.

"Is it a Dark spell?" Hermione asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

"Can magic that brings such pleasure truly be Dark?" the man countered, and then encased her nipple in his mouth once more, making her moan as his hand returned to her soaked center, collecting more of her arousal before trailing up to her other breast and beginning to pluck at the nipple there.

"Oh, God," she said, and he chuckled.

"I prefer 'Lord'," he told her, and before she could give thought to what he meant, she was coming again, howling with pleasure as his thigh ground against her still sensitive mound, the fabric of his trousers providing a delicious friction that seemed to keep her at the cusp of pleasure, until at last he was finished with her breasts and began to kiss her mouth. She felt him then, the hardened length of his arousal moving against her sopping core in teasing strokes.

"Please, oh please!" Hermione begged, wrapping her legs around his hips and trying to force him down into her, but he was immovable, like a statue with glittering eyes and a hot touch.

"Please, what, Hermione?" He asked, the head of him brushing over her sensitized nub, causing her to whimper.

"Please, fuck me," she said automatically. He raised a brow and tsked as he paused his movements.

"Now, is that any sort of language for a lady?"

"You bastard, stop making me wait and-"

"Bastard wasn't quite what I was looking for either, Hermione," he leant down and bit the lobe of her ear before licking the shell and whispering hotly, "I told you to call me Lord."

"What are you-"

" _Voluptatem_." The pleasure tore through her again, leaving her a sobbing mess of throbbing sensation as she struggled to breathe shakily, and her hair grew damp with sweat.

"Please, Lord," she whispered hoarsely when she could think again, and then hissed in pleasure as his cock sank into her up to the hilt.

He rocked against her at first, with smooth, shallow strokes that took her to the precipice of another staggering orgasm before tapering off completely.

"More, more," she cried, and he chuckled as he thrust forward hard, making her keen aloud and reveling in the sound before doing it again. And again. And again until she was crying out in pleasure once more, and even then, he did not stop, only kept up the steady rhythm he was enjoying, driving into her with abandon until at last she came to a fifth, world shattering climax. He stilled, watching her face hungrily as she finished, before letting his own eyes flutter shut and spilling himself within her, his lip trapped between his teeth as he bit down hard and lost control.

0-0-0-0-0-0

 **October 31, 1949**

 **Knockturn Alley**

She wore a black travelling cloak wrapped tightly around her as she made her way through the dank alley. In her day, the narrow lane had been disreputable, and it seemed that in this era it was no different. Cramped little shops lined either side of the street, signs apparently unnecessary as there were none in evidence, not until she reached her destination. The sign hanging above the door of 13B was weathered but legible and read "Borgin and Burkes." Hermione had been once or twice before on Ministry business, but the shop would be different now.

She took a breath, ignoring the stale scent on the air as she stepped into the shop. A bell clanged somewhere in the distance as the door closed behind her, and she stood stiffly, staring around the crowded room until she caught sight of the counter on the opposite wall. Making her way through the clutter of the store was bothersome. She side-stepped shelves of jewelry and cutlery, and a tall black cabinet she recognized and had to stop herself from cursing into smithereens.

"Can I help you?"

The man behind the counter looked just as handsome as he had the last time she had seen him. His dark hair was neatly combed and his robes perfectly pressed where he stood, keeping a watchful eye over the shop and the hooded figure come to speak with him.

Hermione dropped her hood, studying the floor for a moment before she was brave enough to look up and meet the eyes of the man she'd left without a word, three months before.

"Hermione," he said, the surprise evident on his face for only a moment before he managed to control his features once more. "How did you find me?"

At his question, her gaze narrowed.

"It wasn't hard," she snapped, "It's not as if you were hiding. The barman at The Leaky knew you and told me where to look."

"I see," he said, tilting his head to the side as he examined her. "And what brings you to see me today? After your _abrupt_ departure, I had not expected to see you again."

"Look, I'm sorry, alright," said Hermione, trying her best to pacify the venomous tone in the man's voice. "It was nothing against you. I just… I don't normally do the sorts of things we did. I was embarrassed."

He laughed, and the warmth she remembered from their last encounter was gone, leaving his mirth high and cold. "Embarrassed? Merlin, girl, it's not as if you were a virgin."

"And what _exactly_ does that have to do with anything?" It was Hermione's turn to sound cold now.

He considered before inclining his head and replying. "Nothing, I'm sure. I only meant that it was apparent our… session, was not your first introduction to the art of love-making."

"Love-making?" Hermione laughed. "Please, let's at least call it what it was."

"If you prefer," he shrugged.

"Look," Hermione sighed again and crossed her arms tight across her chest, "I'm sorry to bother you. I wouldn't be if circumstances were different, but as it is… well, I think you've got a right to know." She let her voice trail off, unable to force herself to speak the words she hadn't yet said aloud, even to herself.

"What on earth are you talking about?" he hissed, his face suddenly contorted in rage as he leaned across the counter, the palms of his hands flat against its surface. "You can't mean what I think you-"

"Tom!"

The voice coming from the room behind the counter was loud and masculine, and from the way the man hissed and looked immediately over his shoulder, Hermione guessed it was the voice of either Borgin, or Burke.

"Just a moment," he called, "I'm with a customer."

"Tom?" Hermione spoke his name with a frown. "Your name is Tom?"

He turned back to look at her and nodded once stiffly.

"Tom Riddle," he elaborated, "at your service."

"Tom, come here for a moment! The blasted powder box is acting up again!"

"Shit," he said as Hermione's blood turned to ice in her veins. "Wait here. I'll be back in a minute." He disappeared through the door at his back, and Hermione watched him go, frozen where she stood, until a loud bang from the back room made her jump, and her eyes widened in terror.

"No. Oh, God, no," she let out in a terrified whisper and began to back away from the shop's counter, staggering as she went, until she reached the exit and groped blindly for the handle. She turned it as quickly as possible and thrust the door open, stumbling into the alley beyond and taking big gulping breaths of air into her lungs. She had to leave, had to run, had to put as much distance between herself and the shop as possible before _he_ emerged.

" _P-Portus_ ," she cried, her wand shaking in her hand as she pointed it at a bracelet she wore on the opposite wrist. The silver chain glowed blue for a moment, and when the light faded, she was gone.

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 **December 31, 1949**

 **Tottenham**

"Clever, hiding in Muggle London. I was almost convinced you were a figment of my imagination, for a while there."

His voice was both cold and amused, a terrifying dichotomy when one considered the man himself. Hermione froze, still leaning down to deposit a check on the table in front of a man and his wife, who had taken their supper at the pub where she worked.

"Care for a chat, Hermione?" She felt his hand on her elbow and forced herself to release the check, smiling stiffly at the couple before speaking.

"I'll be back in a moment," she told them, and then turned to follow Tom out of the establishment and into the nearest alleyway, his hand on her arm vice-like as he guided her.

As soon as he released her, she whirled away, pulling her wand from beneath her apron and aiming it in his direction just as he cried, " _Expelliarmus_!", disarming her with little effort and catching her only means of defense deftly as it flew toward him. "Now, now, Dove; was raising your wand to me strictly necessary?"

"Yes, it was," Hermione spat, crossing her arms now and backing against the alley's wall. "What do you want from me?"

He scoffed and took a step towards her. "You mean besides the child you're trying to keep from me?"

"What child?" Hermione asked stiffly, not daring to move from her spot against the wall.

"Don't play dumb, Hermione, it doesn't suit you." He vanished her apron with a flick of his wand, revealing the gentle, five month swell of her belly, artfully concealed behind generous swaths of fabric. "How much longer do you think you'll be able to hide _that_ from the Muggles, anyway? I doubt your employer will want an unwed mother sullying their establishment." He sounded disgusted as he spoke, though whether it was for her, or the Muggles he disdained, Hermione did not know.

"Is that a threat?" she asked.

Tom's eyes glittered as he shrugged elegantly. "If it needs to be. I had hoped, though, that once you were assured of my good intentions, threats would be unnecessary."

"Good intentions?" Hermione laughed and rested her hands on her belly. "As if you're capable of those."

His eyes flashed again, and he took another step towards her. "What do _you_ know of my capabilities? Aside from the ones I showed you while you were flat on your back, you know nothing."

"I know plenty," hissed Hermione. "I know who you are, and the disgusting things you want, and I will be damned before I let myself be dragged into it."

He was on her before she could flinch, his wand pressed to her throat as his breath warmed her ear. Despite herself, despite everything she knew about the man pressed bodily against her, she felt herself begin to respond. Before she even began to struggle, his hand was on her chin forcing her to look up and meet his dark gaze.

And then she was falling. Down, down, ever deeper, until she was in a lake filled with swirling figures, each one a memory that called itself forth as she looked at it. There was her last shift at the pub, her lecherous boss smacking her bum as she passed by him. Here was her fifth year, battling for her life in the Department of Mysteries. Memories swirled around her like gunsmoke, each one a bullet threatening to shatter her very existence as it revealed forbidden knowledge to a man who could only ever use it for evil.

When at last he broke away, they were both panting, and Hermione realized her face was soaked in tears. She was lost, everything was lost.

"What the bloody fuck was that?" he rasped as her legs gave out and she slid down the brick at her back until she was sitting on the ground.

"Fuck you," she said.

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He dragged her immediately to the Ministry, pulling her by the hand to a desk with a plaque that read, "Department of Contracts" which caught her eye.

"We're here for a marriage license," he told the clerk.

"Like hell we are," Hermione shouted, and finally managed to yank her hand away from his. "This man brought me here against my will, and I demand that he be taken into custody at once."

"She's carrying my bastard," Tom interrupted, glaring at her, "and I am invoking my right, as the last male of my line, to take her to wife."

"You're right to- why you bloody arsehole, if you think you can just-"

"Will you be requiring a Trace, sir?" The clerk spoke to Tom as if Hermione weren't even present, and her mouth gaped open in shock.

"What did you just say?" she asked incredulously.

Tom gave her a withering glare and then nodded. "Yes, I think I will be."

"Very good, sir. All we need is proof of paternity and six Galleons for the certificate."

"Proof of paternity!?" cried Hermione, who felt as if the world were going mad around her. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Give us a moment, will you?" Tom ordered the clerk through gritted teeth, and then took hold of Hermione's upper arm, his grip bruising, to drag her to a far corner of the room. "What's going on," he hissed, "Is that we are getting married. I won't have any child of mine born a bastard. We will be wed, and a Trace will be placed on your person, which I will then be given access to, preventing you from pulling another little disappearing act with my child."

"You're mad," Hermione spat. "I will never agree to marry you. _Never_!"

"It's a very good thing your agreement isn't necessary then, isn't it?" Tom hissed, his eyes burning with anger. "You're forgetting yourself, _Granger._ This isn't your happy future where I'm dead and you're free to whore yourself out to Aurors. This is 1949, and according to the law as it stands today, I have a right to force the issue and claim you and the babe as my own. You're mine, until I say otherwise!"

Hermione stared at him, horrified, waiting for his terrible veneer to crack, or for the clerk across the room to say, 'only joking' and send them on their way. But they didn't, and she found herself being dragged back across the room unceremoniously, her wand still stowed somewhere on Tom's personage, useless to her. If she tried to run she knew he would stop her, and though she was skilled at wandless magic, she was no match for a vicious man armed with two wands.

"Proof of paternity, if you please." The aging clerk held out a hand and Tom deftly plucked several strands of hair from first Hermione's head, and then his own. The man took them, producing his wand and waving them in the direction of the dark locks. Immediately, a soft golden glow emanated from them, before they caught flame and burned almost instantaneously to ash.

"It seems everything is in order here. Six Galleons, if you please, and then I will ask Mr. Brocklehurst to join us and perform the ceremony."

In shock, Hermione watched as money changed hands, and a squat man in vivid green robes entered the room, his hand outstretched to shake Tom's as he studiously ignored the woman in the room.

"Mr. Riddle, it's a pleasure," he said jovially.

"Mr. Brocklehurst. Thank you for taking the time to marry us today."

At his side, Hermione scoffed, and the ministry official finally cast an eye on her.

"A reluctant bride, I see. What's the matter, my girl? Don't you want your child to have a father?"

Hermione met the man's eyes, her own gaze cold as she spoke. "I think I'd rather the both of us die than be joined to this man."

"Oh dear," said Brocklehurst, alarmed.

"The ceremony, if you don't mind," Tom said, his teeth gritted as he attempted to stay cordial with the man who would bind Hermione to him. She only scoffed and crossed her arms, refusing to look up at either man again, as the farce they had planned was carried out.

As it happened, the particular ceremony reserved for binding unwed mothers to the father of their children did not require the woman to speak. All that was required was her presence, and that had been forced easily enough. For Tom's part, he was made to promise that he would provide for both Hermione and the child physically, giving them a name and abstaining from causing them physical harm. This he swore with blood- which Hermione was surprised to see- and he was, therefore, magically bound by his promise. A small part of her was thankful for the vow required of him, because like it or not, the oath he had taken might save her life some day, when the charming, calculating young man in front of her, became the nightmare from her future.

When the binding was complete, Brocklehurst produced two identical gold bands from the pocket of his robes and handed them to Tom.

"These are the rings you requested, I believe. The runes inscribed on the inside make them impossible to remove, and they are linked together via a modified portkey charm, which will allow you to find her wherever she might be."

Tom grabbed her hand at once, and Hermione struggled in vain to pull away from him, clenching her fist and forcing him to pry her hand open before he was at last able to slip the smaller of the rings over her fourth finger. The metal of the band brightened and then burned white hot against her skin for a moment before it dimmed and cooled once more. Tom gave the ring an experimental tug and Hermione gasped as her whole hand was jerked forward. Satisfied, he slipped his own ring onto the fourth finger of his left hand and then nodded to each of the men in the room before taking Hermione by the hand.

"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, pulling her from the room.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle," the clerk called as the door swung shut behind them.

0-0-0-0-0-0

 **February 14, 1950**

 **Brasília, Brazil**

She was swollen. And uncomfortable. The heat surrounding her was oppressive, making her hair frizz unattractively as she made her way through the crowded market, one hand laid protectively across her belly, and the other clutching a broken, old hand mirror at her side. It had taken quite a bit of illegal magic to manage an international portkey, but she had done it, and now that she was here, free of the man who had plagued her since their first, unfortunate meeting, she could not regret it. What were a few of an innocent man's memories when compared with her freedom? No, she would not apologize for using the Imperius curse on the ministry official who had given her a means of escape, nor would she feign remorse over obliviating him. She had done what she'd needed to do to be free of the man who had slithered into her life and tried to possess her. And now, she would do what she needed to do to find a way home, back to her time, where she wasn't a wife to a psychopath, and Tom Riddle was dead.

She found the little house with no trouble at all. It was a charming place, with a lovely garden in front and a birdbath near the porch; hardly the sort of place one imagined a powerful wizard might live. Still, Vinicius Oportuno was powerful, and one of the only wizards alive who had published anything worthwhile on the subject of time travel.

Hermione walked up the steps to the porch and leaned forward, knocking three times, and then stepping back to wait. She listened for movement as she set the used portkey she had been holding aside on the small table which stood beside a weathered rocking chair. At last, the shuffle of footsteps sounded from within, and Hermione wiped the sweat from her forehead as she straightened, her eye trained on the door. When it finally opened, she stumbled backward, and she would have fallen off of the porch completely if someone hadn't grabbed her wrist and jerked her forward.

"Did you think I wouldn't know?" he hissed, his mouth beside her ear as he spoke. "Did you think you were more clever than me?"

"Get away from me!" Hermione cried, yanking her arm back and shoving him from her with both hands.

She saw him then, as he took a step backwards. His usually immaculately groomed hair was disheveled, and the crisp white shirt he wore was stained with several gruesome looking splatters.

"What have you done?" she asked in horror.

"Nothing you did not force me to do through your ridiculous persistence." Tom lifted a hand and combed his fingers through his hair. "I told you that there would be consequences the next time you tried to run, Hermione. I warned you that I would not be so understanding a second time."

"Did you murder him?" Hermione's voice was high as she moved to push her way past Tom and into the house, but he stepped into her path.

"You can't help him," he told her, his voice having gone from cold fury to understanding. "I'm sorry that your visit didn't go as planned, Hermione, but you really ought to have known better than to cross me."

"You're sick," she said, but did not move to enter the house again.

"And you're valuable." Tom shrugged. "Much too valuable to be allowed to roam around Brazil looking for an escape route. I need you in this time, dove. I need you by my side with that beautiful, bushy head of yours, and those one of a kind, better than a seer, memories. "

"I'm not a tool to be used," Hermione hissed.

"Of course you aren't," Tom agreed, smiling at her kindly. "You're the mother of my child, my wife, and if you are suggesting that you would like to establish a more intimate, sexual relationship, I would not be adverse to-"

She spat at him, and the spittle landed on his cheek, sliding down as he stood in silence, until at last he lifted a hand to wipe it away.

"Perhaps, we'll continue that particular conversation later," he said sardonically, and then he reached out to grab her wrist, pulling her flush against him and apparating them both away.

0-0-0-0-0-0

 **May 1, 1950**

 **St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries**

The labor had been longer and more painful than she had expected, but in the end, she was handed a beautiful, brown haired baby girl, and both the pain and the exhaustion were forgotten. She had not expected to love the child so immediately, or so completely. Somehow, she had not imagined that it would be a part of her, that half of her heart would be born into its perfect, tiny body. In her nightmares, the child had been a snake, red of eye and black of scale, but the reality of the girl was far from Hermione's fears. The baby was hers, just as much as it was Tom's. More-so, really. She thought she could see the Granger nose and chin beneath dark, wide eyes and a head of dark hair.

"What would you like to name her?"

He spoke from the doorway where he had been hovering. Hermione glanced up briefly before returning her attention to the babe in her arms.

"What, you haven't already chosen some ancestral moniker you'll force me into saddling her with?"

Tom snorted softly and walked to her bedside, sitting on the chair at her right and leaning forward to peer at the baby.

"No," he said, his voice low as he studied her.

"What are you looking at?" Hermione asked defensively, feeling suddenly as if she needed to shield the baby from him somehow. Tom stiffened and frowned in response.

"I'm not going to hurt her," he snapped. "I swore to it, if you'll recall."

"If your vow is the only thing keeping her from harm, I think there's still plenty of reason to protect her from you," Hermione said coldly.

"Of course it's not the only thing- of all the accusations you could level at me, I think this is the worst. I would _never_ harm my own child. Do you think me an animal, or a Muggle, capable of hurting a baby?"

"I know for a fact you're capable of it," Hermione answered without hesitation.

"No," Tom argued. "You know I would have been capable of it in an uncertain future that may yet be prevented. In a world where I had neither wife, nor child, where my aim was to kill, or subjugate Muggleborns."

"And your aims have changed now, have they?" Hermione asked, mockingly.

"I can hardly vilify Mudbloods when I've married one, dove."

"Don't call me that," Hermione snapped. But her eyes fell on the baby in her arms again, and her expression softened.

"Do you think I want to make the same mistakes I made in your world, Hermione?" Tom asked, his voice soft now as he leaned in to peer at their daughter. "I don't want to die a villain. I want to live to be celebrated. I want to rule the Wizarding world and make it great again for my child, and for all of our kind. I want to restore us to our natural position of power in the world… not murder children in their cribs."

There was silence in the several minutes that followed, as Hermione sat contemplating his words while Tom admired the baby she held. At last, she spoke.

"I want to name her Clara, after my mother."

"Clara Merope. That will do."

"You want to name her after _your_ mother?" Hermione asked, surprised.

Tom stiffened but nodded once.

Hermione sighed and then moved to lay Clara in the little floating bassinet beside her bed.

"Let me," said Tom, and he held out his arms for the baby. Hermione froze, struggling within herself at the thought of allowing him to hold her child. This was Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort. The man who had haunted her nightmares and created a world where she was disparaged because of her blood. He had tried to murder her best friend on multiple occasions, and tortured countless Muggles before ending their lives… Or was that some other man, in some other world? Was her memory of him a window to the future, or a dream that might, or might not come to fruition? Certainly, she had changed the timeline when she had met him… but had she changed it enough to make him redeemable, or would he forever be destined for villainy?

"Watch her head," Hermione instructed, as she settled the baby in his arms, watching closely as he cradled her and began to bounce his arms slightly.

0-0-0-0-0-0

 **June 3, 1953**

 **Riddle Cottage**

The bed was warm; it was always warm. Tom burned like a furnace at night, his skin radiating heat in waves as she slept. It was a comfort, though she would never admit it.

"Are you asleep?"

"Mmm?"

"Wake up, dove."

She rolled onto her stomach, pretending not to hear him, and inhaled several strands of hair as it settled around her like a mantle.

Tom chuckled, and she felt one of his hands trace around her waist before settling on her opposite hip.

"You'll not escape so easily," he whispered, voice husky in her ear as he shifted beside her, the covers moving around them, until at last she felt him settle above her, his bare skin pressed against hers, his smooth chest brushing her back, and his hard cock nudging at the cleft of her arse.

"Go away, you menace," she moaned, but the heat of him felt so nice, and his lips were on her neck, and she really didn't mind the way his hips pressed her down into the mattress, settling a delicious sort of pressure against her clit.

"I don't think that's what you really want," he whispered into her ear, and then licked the shell before biting her lobe. She arched her back in response, and felt his hard length slip between her thighs from behind.

"Tom." She sighed his name as one of his hands snaked between her and the bed, his clever fingers finding the bundle of nerves at the top of her slit just as his cock began to slide into her from behind, pushing her down against his fingers and making her cry out.

"Hush," he ordered, "you don't want to wake her." And he pushed her face down into the pillow.

Hermione began to moan again, her voice muffled against the cloth as he pounded her from behind, every sharp jut of his hips driving her closer to the release he had become so proficient at provoking. God, he didn't even need the spell he'd used their first time together anymore, hadn't for years now. Just touching her was enough, most days, to bring her to her knees, wailing out with need until at last he pushed her over the edge and into oblivion.

When they had finished and she lay languidly beside him, their juices coating her mons and thighs, he spoke.

"I'll be leaving for Albania tomorrow. You'll be fine here with Clara?"

Hermione froze, remembering something about Albania from a previous life, before nodding.

0-0-0-0-0-0

 **September 1, 1954**

 **Riddle Cottage**

She had found the answer she was looking for a year ago, but she had not had the will to use it. She was settled here, in this odd life, with a daughter she loved more than life, and a husband she enjoyed on occasion. Their existence was peaceful, if not idyllic. Tom kept his pursuit of power largely away from the cottage they shared in the Highlands, and Hermione pretended she did not know he was continuing to seek out powerful magical objects, or that he was meeting frequently with people like Abraxas Malfoy and Ecthelion Avery. It worked for them, and had been working for four years. And then she had fallen pregnant again, and she had tucked the knowledge away, praying that she would never need to use it, that when Tom spoke of a different path, he meant it.

But she had been wrong. Foolish. She should have gone, at once, when she had been given the opportunity, should have taken her daughter and run to the farthest reaches of the earth before going even further, to a place Tom Riddle could not follow. It had been her mistake, and now she was paying for it.

" _Stupefy!_ " she cried, her wand held tightly in hand as she pointed it in Tom's direction and watched the jet of red light speed toward him.

"Hermione, stop this at once," he ordered, deflecting the spell with a wave of his hand before stepping closer to her.

"Stay back!" she shouted, wordlessly casting a vicious slicing hex in his direction. He sidestepped the curse, and for the first time in the duel, raised his own wand.

"Mummy?" The small voice sounded from behind her, high and frightened.

"Go back to your room, Clara," Tom said, his voice light. "Your mother and I are only playing."

"Don't you speak to her," Hermione hissed. "Don't you say a word to her!"

"I'll speak to my daughter if, and when, I please, Hermione," Tom replied.

" _Sectumsempra_!" Hermione sent the curse his way quickly and skillfully, and before he could deflect it, it caught him in the arm. Tom hissed and lifted his wand, waving it in her direction and disarming her before freezing her in place.

She sobbed, still as a statue, while Tom tended to his wound before walking towards her; his expression unreadable, and his eyes flashing red. Hermione squeezed her own eyes shut, unwilling to meet his gaze now. How had she fooled herself into thinking he would change? The eye color with which he had come home today was merely a physical representation of the evil in his soul, which she knew must have been festering for these past four years.

"Look at me!" he ordered, and Hermione felt his hand on her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his red slits. "If you ever raise a wand to me in front of our daughter again, you will regret it, Hermione."

"I loathe you," she said in response.

Tom reached down to caress her belly, full of his child and covered only by a thin nightgown.

"Is this what loathing looks like?"

Hermione only glared at him as he chuckled and leaned in to drop a soft kiss on her cheek. "Go to bed," he ordered. "I'll be a while yet." As he swept from the room, she felt the Body Bind Curse melt away, and she collapsed to the floor in a heap.

She had been weak, complacent, stupid. No more.

0-0-0-0-0-0

 **October 31, 1954**

 **Riddle Cottage**

The portal glowed bright blue, illuminating the whole room. At her side, Clara was staring in wide eyed wonder at the light, her dark brown curls sweeping behind her as a supernatural breeze seemed to emit from the swirling doorway.

"Take my hand, love," Hermione said, and the little girl slid her hand into her mother's, her fingers squeezing tight. In Hermione's arms, the baby cried out, barely a month old, and bothered by the bright magic dominating the room.

They stepped through together, Hermione leading her children through the portal at a quick pace. The trip took no time at all, and by the time they had cleared the light, it was gone. At first, she did not think it had worked, but then, Hermione noticed the bareness of the room. What had formerly been her living room was nothing now but a bare, boarded up old room. Through the wooden panels nailed over the windows, small stripes of sunlight filtered, and Hermione fell to her knees, little William still cradled firmly in her arms.

"Mummy, are you alright?" Clara watched her mother, a worried expression on the child's face as she noticed the tears spilling from her mother's eyes.

"I'm alright," Hermione assured the girl, getting shakily back to her feet.

They made their way outside into the sun together, and Hermione took in the garden - long overgrown - the wooden fence fallen into nothing long ago. She wept again.

It had worked. She was back. Back where she belonged, in a world without Lord Voldemort, where her children could grow up safe and loved, without a monster for a father.

"Hello, dove."

She nearly dropped the baby as she screamed, whirling on the spot to face the man who had spoken.

He was just as tall as ever, though his dark hair and eyes were long gone. In their place, red eyes gleamed and slit like nostrils flared at the sight of her.

"You," Hermione cried.

"Me."

"But you're dead!"

Lord Voldemort laughed, high and cold as the blood drained from Hermione's face. "You're not so lucky as that," he said, and strode forward, taking the baby from her arms and bouncing him in his own until his wails faded.

"How are you- How did you know to find me here?" Hermione watched in fascinated horror as the man who was once her husband continued to cradle her infant son, looking down at the boy with an unreadable expression. He glanced up at her question and held up a hand in answer. The sunlight caught the golden glint of a ring on his finger.

"Daddy? Is that you?" At Hermione's side, Clara squinted, looking up at Lord Voldemort with a confused expression.

"Hello, darling," he said, and the child moved towards him, studying him for a moment before deciding that the odd looking man in front of her was her father after all. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and nestled into his side.

"Did you see the lights Mummy made?"

"I did at that, love," he told her, his red eyes trained on Hermione as he spoke.

"This can't be happening," Hermione moaned, her eyes filling with tears. It was impossible. Voldemort was dead. Tom was dead! How could he be standing there, holding her children, when he should be so much dust at Harry Potter's hand?

"Harry-"

"Alive," interrupted Tom. "One of my Death Eaters, actually. You see, my dear, I learned from you after all."

"Impossible," Hermione breathed.

"Entirely true," shrugged Voldemort, and he adjusted the baby in his arms. "Would you like to see?"

He held one hand out to her, and Hermione's heart sank.

"I can't," she whispered.

"You must," he said.

She took his hand with a shudder.


End file.
